


Oxymorons and Pleonasms

by ChaoticJester



Series: A bunch of (badly written) Leon Fics [3]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Afterlife, All the other characters except for Leon are only mentioned, Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Angst, Character Analysis, Character Study, Giving Leon a tragic backstory (tm), Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Leon ain't straight in this one folks, Leon has a shitty father 2020, Leon knows big words, Leon re-thinking about his life choices, Not what you think, Other, but his sexuality ain't a main focus, it's not actual self-harm don't worry, jk, more or less?, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:07:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27806572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticJester/pseuds/ChaoticJester
Summary: Living in death, what a pretty oxymoron.[...]He had been hit to death. Hit to death with the same thing that gave him comfort (even if he’d never admit it. For everyone else, his execution just reassured an already deep hatred, not ruined a secret love.) He felt every second of his godforsaken execution. And, to add to that, the guilt of being a killer. God, it has eaten him alive since he killed her, eating him from the inside, a twisted, dark feeling that had made it impossible for him to find any sense of peace.
Relationships: None
Series: A bunch of (badly written) Leon Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1943050
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Oxymorons and Pleonasms

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for whatever this is
> 
> (Obligatory: I am not a native english speaker. Sorry for any grammatical errors.)

**Living in death, what a pretty oxymoron.**

Well, it wasn’t that pretty once you actually did that. Getting stuck with being dead, chased by the nightmares and hit by the phantom pains.

Sometimes he couldn’t breathe. Other times he could feel his bones breaking. His teeth getting knocked out. His eyes _exploding_. His skin being torn apart by baseball balls.

Really, it wasn’t pretty. His execution haunted him even after he died.

He was sure all the other victims and executed felt the same pains he felt. Leon was an asshole, a loud, selfish, idiotic asshole, but he could see it. He could see the signs.

Sayaka would look down in horror. Sometimes hold her own wrist. Others she had to sit while grasping her stomach. It was always subtle though. After years under the public eye Leon guessed she could easily hide when she wasn’t feeling good well enough.

Ikusaba’s were way more difficult to notice. She would just… freeze. It wasn’t that noticeable since no one really looked at her that much – and she made no efforts in asking for forgiveness nor being a part of the group. So Leon was stuck with having to guess when she was having an “attack”.

Chihiro was another easy one. Sometimes he would just pass out, or grasp the back of his head in a panic-filled state. His “attacks” were so easy to spot that anyone knew when he was having one. He had now the habit of never walking in front of people or give ‘em his back. It was an unwritten rule that everyone had to announce their presence if they saw Chihiro in a room.

Mondo’s attacks consisted in him having to sit and losing his sense of equilibrium. He was pretty much leaning against a wall at every chance he got. He also passed his hands on his arms, on his face, just to check he wasn’t melting. (or at least, that was the explanation Leon gave to the bizarre behavior.)

Taka and Hifumi’s, much like Chihiro, didn’t give their back to anyone. Hifumi kept to himself, the guilt of what he’d done eating him alive -or, well, dead. Taka easily forgave him (And stopped Mondo from beating up the fanfic creator.)

They both sometimes froze and turned around in fear, only to be greeted with nothing, other times, if they saw each other, they would both freeze and take steps back.

Celestia was difficult to read, her poker face not giving away even a hint of discomfort. But still, being burned alive left some ugly mental scars. Whenever she had an attack, she drank cold tea. That was her only telling. Consuming cold food or drinks. Not that they had to eat, mind you. They could, and sometimes it was still nice to pretend they weren’t in the afterlife but at school, in a normal evening.

_Fuck, he truly wished that was the case._

Sakura didn’t seem to have attacks, but sometimes pain fleshed trough her eyes. Other times she drank a lot, almost as if she wanted to wash her mouth. Leon could pretty much guess why.

And lasty, the mastermind herself, Junko fucking Enoshima. He knew that her attacks must be bad ones, since, y’know, she got executed (NO, she executed herself.) in every way possible, but she _loved_ them. The ex-fashionista was in her own fucking heaven.

But Leon couldn’t care less. Junko Enoshima had no business with them anymore. For them all she was the one that-must-not-be-nominated.

Fuck her. She could disappear from existence and he’d laugh.

Leon sighed. He had to spend his eternity in what was a mockery of Hope’s Peak Academy. They had anything they wanted, sure. The only rule was, apparently, that they couldn’t truly get out.

Whatever they wished for was there, except for freedom. **Ironic** , he thinks. _They killed, they died for freedom, and now that was the only thing they couldn_ _’_ _t have._

What a joke.

He now laughed at all the people that wished for an afterlife, not knowing just how utterly _boring_ it was. He had never been a particularly religious person. For him God existed only to be blamed for all the bad shit that happened to him.

And _now_ , now if there were a God out there, _he wanted to punch them in the teeth_. Fucker must be laughing their ass off right now.

He had taken the habit to lie down, thinking back at his life on earth, asking himself a series of _what ifs_.

 _What if he was born normal, average, not an Ultimate?_ Easy question. After the tragedy he would’ve died.

 _What if he had been born a year prior?_ He would’ve been put in class 77. Brainwashed by Junko, become a Remain of Despair. He would’ve done some really fucked up shit. He almost pitied that class. Fuck, if they ever wake up without their brains all scrambled, they will probably feel like shit.

 _What if he hadn_ _’_ _t entered Sayaka_ _’_ _s room that night?_ He could’ve survived, probably. Even Hiro fucking survived. Hiro _. Then why didn_ _’_ _t he? Why did he have to be such an idiot?_

_Why?_

He hasn’t spoken to Sayaka yet. They both decided to ignore each other in a mutual agreement. He could see it in her eyes, the regret, the guilt, a bit of hate, everything. But he also knew that in his own eyes there was nothing but hatred, maybe even a bit of pity, but he truly couldn’t find it in himself to forgive her.

He understood her point of view, but… God. She died feeling almost nothing. Sure, a fractured bone and a stab wound. He remembers reading somewhere, before he was forced in Junko’s sick game, that getting stabbed felt just like being punched. The adrenaline helped with ignoring the feeling of the blade piercing the skin, and only the handle of the knife hitting the skin could be felt.

So, basically, a punch in the guts and a broken bone. He didn’t want to be the asshole that minimized the pain that others went through, but-

 _He had been hit to death_. Hit to death with the same thing that gave him comfort (even if he’d never admit it. For everyone else, his execution just reassured an already deep hatred, not ruined a secret love.) He felt every second of his godforsaken execution. And, to add to that, the guilt of being a killer. God, it has eaten him alive since he killed her, eating him from the inside, a twisted, dark feeling that had made it impossible for him to find any sense of peace.

He could only remember some snaps of that night.

He could remember up until she closed the bathroom door. Then he… he blackened out. He remembers feeling so full of rage. _A burning, intense, horrible rage._

It boiled under his skin, making his chest constrict and feel so hot it was almost cold.

He remembers taking the toolkit.

Taking the door-knob off, he trembled so much he ended up with breaking it.

He remembers seeing her, crying, asking for forgiveness- that made him even angrier. Her cries for help were as loud as gunshots in his state, and it fueled his rage. He just wanted her to _shut up_.

He… he remembers the feeling of the knife eating the skin, trespassing it.

Then everything else was a blur. The panic, once it settled in, overcame him.

He was naïve, his death unjust. He had known about the whole class trial only after he killed her, so he didn’t think about hiding the evidence better, he didn’t think about checking the body for clues… he thought that once he killed her, he would’ve been freed. He didn’t know any better.

Once that the trial’s rules had been revealed, he knew he had a timer over his head. _Once the trial would_ _’_ _ve started, that timer would_ _’_ _ve hit the zero. Simple._

Obviously, he didn’t just confess immediately. No one would’ve prided themselves of being a murderer.

He instead pleaded as innocent up until the end. Well, up until the truth came out. At that point even he, in his shocked, angry, panicked state admitted defeat. Leon was one of those people that either gave up immediately or kept on going until they couldn’t go anymore, never in between.

He wondered what would’ve happened if he had kept a leveled head that night. The Baseball Star would’ve gone to call for help, or maybe go back to his room. He had the habit of sleeping his emotions away, especially the intense ones.

 _What would_ _’_ _ve Sayaka done if he hadn_ _’_ _t killed her that night?_ She would’ve probably tried to paint him as the assaulter. She would’ve spun a sad little tale about her opening her door because she heard someone pleading her to enter, claiming they’d been attacked. And then that Leon overcame her with a knife, she defended herself and ended up with a badly fractured wrist, then closed the door of the bathroom to protect herself.

Makoto would’ve believed her without a second thought. And so would all the other people. The only ones that would’ve been on a neutral side would’ve been Togami, suspicious as ever, Kirigiri, who would’ve probably seen all the holes in her story, Celeste, who always looked for a reason to prove someone wrong, and Sakura, who would’ve been neutral until someone proved the story to be true.

That filled him with new hot rage. _Fucking bitch, how dare she-_ no. that hadn’t happened. It was just a scenario. Maybe she would’ve been overwhelmed with guilt and confessed.

Maybe she’d even defend him.

But all of these theories are just _what ifs_. What happened was that Leon had been a gullible idiot. Blinded by the desire to deviate from the road other people tried to direct him to. The road life put him on. He had been attacked and he reacted in the worse way possible.

He knew that his self-defense excuse was only to somehow convince himself that he wasn’t in the wrong. That he had to. That he wasn’t a killer.

But obviously that stopped being self-defense once he touched that damned toolkit. Then it just became mindless violence, a desire for revenge, dictated only by his fucked-up emotions.

All that rage wasn’t only for that fucking situation. He only took that as an opportunity to let _years of repressed emotions_ out in one single action. He was angry at Sayaka, at himself, at his father, at his cousin, at the situation, at his talent, at his coach, _at life in general._

What did he do to live such a shitty life? What did he do to deserve all those years of pain?

Why him?

His life before the tragedy, before that damned school, was not a happy one. Sure, his future looked radiant. Hot chicks and dudes, expensive cars, multiple big houses each with an Olympic pool, parties and getting drunk and doing all that celebrity shit.

But before that there was so much pain.

He remembers all the “friends” he had in middle school. All either jealous of his talent or hungry for his uncle’s money. Being the nephew of the owner of the biggest tv channel in Japan had both its perks and disadvantages. On one side there were really expensive gifts, long vacations and big checks. On the other side people befriended him in hope of getting in touch with his uncle or his money, never to actually become his friend.

Speaking of his uncle, he had a daughter. Kanon. His godforsaken cousin, a girl that grew with a borderline obsessive (no, scratch that. Whatever Kanon felt towards the Baseball Star wasn’t “Borderline”) love for him.

She grew up surrounded by richness and whatever she desired for, so maybe her not getting Leon is what made that innocent puppy-love turn into whatever twisted version she now felt. He remembers her following him and his girlfriends (and occasional boyfriend) around. He remembers that a couple of those love stories ended because of Kanon threatening whoever had been unlucky enough to date Leon at the time.

He still found himself at fault for Kanon’s infatuation though. _Maybe he had been too kind? Did he lead her on in any way? Had he given her some impression of reciprocating her feelings?_

Even rejecting her every day for nine consecutive years (sometimes even multiple times a day) hadn’t been enough for her to understand that he truly could not see her as nothing more that a little sister. Sometimes she had been too much- okay, _more than sometimes_. He had felt so _wrong_ every time she hugged him for a bit too long, caressed him, touched him in any way that hadn’t seemed all too “innocent”. He had never told her how he felt, but he silently felt relieved when she wasn’t around.

Fuck, it was so mean to say, but hell, she had it coming.

He was at least eighty-eight percent sure she had some kind of shrine dedicated to him in her room.

Ugh, just thinking about that gave him goosebumps. He wanted to scratch his skin _raw_.

He had a bit of a nervous tic. Whenever he felt angry, nervous or agitated he scratched. He scratched his head, his arm, his leg, whatever his hand laid on first.

It was a tic that developed with his repressing emotions. A little way for his brain to ground himself and let some energy out. It was unhealthy, it often left him with ugly skin irritations or even “burns”, but he did it without thinking. He often caught himself once the damage had already been done.

His repressing emotions was something he did subconsciously. He wasn’t by any means a “stone cold” person. He still felt emotions, _probably even more intensely than others_ , but he just… didn’t let them out, nor vent in any way. He had always been told to just “deal with it”, and so he did. Sometimes he had to bite the inside of his cheek until it bleed instead of saying what he had in mind, others he had to physically stop himself from straight-up assault someone. He always had to be the chill, goofy character, never to let his true thoughts out.

Growing up with only his father had been hard. The man truly had no idea on how to grow a child. He was a retired baseball coach who drank a bit too much one night and fucked some random girl without a condom.

They never really clicked. His father pretty much forgot about him. Instead he called some random women to take care of him until he was old enough to “fend for himself” aka once he was old enough to talk, write and go to the bathroom without assistance.

The first time he played baseball had been a magical experience. Fuck, he’ll always remember the shocked look his father gave him when he basically won his first baseball game all by himself. He had been seven. It had been a stupid little game, nothing serious, but his father recognized his talent immediately. The same talent his father never had, the same talent he had always wanted.

_And now he had recognized it in Leon._

He started to treat him differently from that one time. Not like a son, but like a baseball player that needed training. (He had never needed it. He was able to easily hit a home run at seven, throw a perfect fastball the first time he tried, catch a ball that would’ve been impossible for any other child to catch and so on. Baseball was a second nature for him, he did it as easily as he breathed.)

He recognized too late that his father was trying to live through him, becoming controlling, giving him almost no free time just to make him practice until he couldn’t run anymore, to make him bat until he couldn’t feel his fingers, to make him throw baseball balls until the friction ate through the gloves.

He grew to hate baseball. Hate it with a burning fucking passion. He had searched any believable excuse to ditch it, and found it in a random girl at a saloon. _He could become a musician._

A Rockstar to be precise. He would live an almost identical life to the one he had planned with his baseball career. Hot partners, luxury cars, multiple houses, pools, parties and so on.

Fuck yes.

He started rebelling. Little things at first, a piercing here and there, letting his beard grow, dyeing his hair… all things he knew would make him look more like a Rockstar.

And then the big news: Hope’s Peak Academy recruited him! Fuck, this was his occasion! He would leave behind his father, Kanon, his fake friends and, more importantly, _baseball_.

He just needed to prove to whoever was in charge that he had enough talent to be called the “Ultimate musician”. It was perfect!

And then it wasn’t. He refused to play baseball, saying he was done, saying he hated it… but fuck, once his father wasn’t there to force him to play, he missed it. He missed the feeling of the crowd – _both sides of the stadium_ \- going absolutely wild every time his name or number were called, the feeling of hitting the ball and start to run, free like the wind.

And when he had started to open up to it again the tragedy happened. And then baseball became a long-lost dream. And after his execution it became a _nightmare_.

His own personal hell.

He closed his eyes, and all he could see was the shocked expression of his classmates, all he could feel was the cold metal around his neck that was just tight enough to almost choke him. And then pain, on every single side of his body. He could hear and feel his bones crack. He felt his own ribs stabbing his insides, getting pushed deeper by the force of the baseball balls hitting his body-

And while he gasped for air, while he felt himself dying over and over, only one thought echoed in his mind:

**Dying in death, what a pretty pleonasm.**

**Author's Note:**

> I am not sorry for whatever this is, I lied.
> 
> Please leave a comment and a kudos if you somehow found this story enjoyable or if you have any criticism!!!! I'd love to read some opinions!  
> :D


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